


Tell me something that will change me

by adropofred



Category: Glee
Genre: Blow Jobs, M/M, Prostitution
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-13
Updated: 2013-09-13
Packaged: 2017-12-26 10:21:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,041
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/964813
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/adropofred/pseuds/adropofred
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's a sign on the fence, proudly stating Dalton Academy for Boys, AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY. Someone scribbled fags over boys. Dalton Academy for Fags. That's where the boys wait, they say. You drive there one night, because you heard about it and you've had a terrible week. You don't know what to expect.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tell me something that will change me

**Author's Note:**

> accompanying manip (sfw) [here](http://foxykurt.tumblr.com/post/61073777546/tell-me-something-that-will-change-me-2k-words).
> 
> title from lady gaga's song _teeth_.

The front is pretty. Huge sign, clean grounds, impeccable cars parked in the lot, neatly trimmed bushes and green trees. But the back is different. The Dalton grounds go down a hill, the grass growing thinner and duller the further you go from the main buildings. At the end, there are a few abandoned ones -the former gardener's house, covered with ivy and badly nailed planks ; two and a half  walls remaining from the old gymnasium, and a staff entrance for the janitors and lunch ladies.

A high metal fence goes all around the grounds, somehow becoming a brick wall halfway to the top. If you know where to look, there are a few holes in the wire netting, allowing students to sneak out after curfew, to go party in town or see a movie with their friends -or completely different activities. It is a known fact that Dalton is expensive. There are a lot of scholarships, some of them for activities no one even practices anymore, and they cover the whole tuition and the boarding, but teenage boys want to be  _in._ Or they have girlfriends who want nice dinners in town. Or they want a new guitar. 

(there's a sign on the fence, proudly stating  _Dalton Academy for Boys, AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY_. Someone scribbled  _fags_ over  _boys._   _Dalton Academy for Fags._ )

You drive there one night, because you heard about it and you've had a terrible week. You don't know what to expect. There isn't a huge line of boys, like the Kurfürstenstrasse in Berlin. It's not like that. There are two or three boys, wearing dark clothing, walking as if they were going home after a night out, glancing nervously at the road. You drive slower, licking your lips, wondering how you are supposed to  _do_ this. 

Then one of them turns around -he's pretty, with huge eyes that make him look like a deer caught in the headlights of your car. He stops. The two other boys stop. You stop. You unlock the door. He gestures for you to roll down the window, his breath drawing a large cloud on the cold glass, and he smiles at you, cocking his head to the side. 

(you don't know if it's practiced or not. You don't want to know. His lips are red and full and his voice just a buzzing sound in the back of your head.)

You cut him short and ask for his price.  _Not much_ , he says, and you laugh.  _Are you the kind of guy who's going to distract me while the others move closer and the next thing I know, I'm out and you're all driving away?_ He laughs, warm and just a little bit on edge. He looks at you straight in the eyes.  _I'm the kind of guy who can make you feel so good._ He gets in the car and you drive away. The other boys look at you, but he doesn't, he looks straight ahead with a little smile playing on his lips. 

He stops you after a few blocks,  _There's a parking lot right around the corner,. There used to be a McDonald's here but it closed down after another one opened near the Northern Mall._ You nod stupidly. You wish he would stop talking because if you keep hearing his young, enthusiastic voice it will make him real, it will make  _everything_ real. Once the car is parked and the headlights are turned off, he shrugs off his jacket and folds it carefully before tucking it under the windshield. He's wearing a plain cream tee-shirt underneath, the collar used and the fabric softened by the years. He wastes no time in leaning down towards your lap, looking at you through impossibly long eyelashes. It's too dark for you to see what his eyes say.

It's only a matter of seconds before your belt is unfastened and your pants unzipped, and he takes your cock out without any preamble, giving it a few good pulls before taking the head in his mouth. One of your hands flows to his shoulder, fingers digging in the skin, and he moans a little around you. His mouth is wet and warm and his lips are soft and full, he knows exactly where to press with his tongue and how to deepthroat like a fucking pro, breathing calmly through his nose. You want to close your eyes but you can't, not with the way his cheeks hollow when he sucks harder, not with that look in his eyes. He looks like your sister's puppy when it wants to be praised, so you squeeze his shoulder, and he moans again, finally closing his eyes. It feels like the worst kind of Heaven.

(there's a crucifix hanging from the rearview mirror and a Bible in the glove compartment, along with the car's papers and a few pictures of your kids smiling too bright for you to recognize them) 

You're too close already, so you wrap your hand around the base of your cock while he sucks softly on the head. He actually  _whines_ a little when it slips away from his mouth, so you direct it back to him, the precome and the saliva painting a shiny coat on his lips. You watch him lick them eagerly, tense and incredulous and incredibly aroused, before he starts lapping at your dick again, breathing a little harder, his eyebrows drawn together. You wonder what he's thinking about.  

After a little while, you carefully let go and hesitantly take his head between your hands. He chuckles softly, his cheeks red and his lips slick and swollen. He takes you all the way down, and you don't realize  _you_ made him do it, your grasp on his face stronger than you think. He starts bobbing up and down on your cock, faster, faster, and you start groaning, choking on your own breath when he lifts a hand to cup your balls and play with them.

You let go of his face, awkwardly tapping his temple to warn him, gasping a few words that don't make any sense, but he doesn't move away. He sucks harder and harder until you come, curling in on yourself, clutching his shoulders like he's the anchor and the sea at the same time, keeping you and drowning you all at once. He swallows every drop, and you feel like he would swallow you whole if he could. He keeps sucking until you push him away because you're too sensitive, and you don't know if you're making it up in your head or if he actually looks disappointed. He licks his lips a few times, wiping his mouth on the collar of his tee-shirt, and it hits you like a train -that's what your son does when he eats ketchup and gets some on his chin. 

This boy is someone's son. He's barely older than your daughter and he was once younger than your son is right now. He's putting his jacket on and -Jesus, someone bought this jacket for him, or someone got him the money to pay for it himself. Men like you, proud owners of hybrid cars with an armful of non-biodegradable candy wrappers in the ashtray. Men with wives and kids and lives and jobs. Men who walk down the street every day, to go to work or to the bank or to the shop. Men who could be his father. 

You feel tired and ashamed and sick. 

(mostly because you know you would do it all over again in a heartbeat.)

He's rubbing absent-mindedly at his cheek, where it's a little red and marked with indentations from where your zipper pressed into the skin. You fish your wallet out of your pocket, pull out a fifty and give it to him. He raises an eyebrow, as if he wasn't really expecting you to pay him, as if he was doing this for his own pleasure. The little smile is back on his lips.

When you drive him back to the  _Dalton Academy for Fags_ , one of the boys is gone, but the other one is there, sitting on the curb. He stands up when he sees your car, and the boy smiles at you before opening the door.  _It was a pleasure, sir, have a good night_ , he says, and you're too taken aback to say anything. You watch him join the other, and they both glance at your car as they talk. You stay until they twist the wire netting and sneak back on the school grounds, running up the hill, back to their dorms.

Then you drive home. 

(you spend a long time watching your wife as she sleeps, that night. Her breath smells like orange juice and Ambien.)

You try not to think about it, about him. You're doing a pretty good job, until your daughter comes home one day, months later, talking loudly on her phone. She's a bit late for dinner, and she waves at you and your wife and your son before going upstairs to change, get rid of the checkered skirt and the black sweater vest. When she comes down a few minutes later in a long-sleeved tee-shirt and sweatpants that go far too low on her hips, she's buzzing with energy. She lasts through graces but blurts out when your wife starts serving the food,  _So you guys know about our sister school, Dalton, right?_ Your wife says,  _Of course we do,_ with a small smile to your son who wants to go there next fall, and you smile, chewing on your food and watching the pleased faces of your family.

 _Well get this,_ she says,  _So Crawford's a day school, but like, Dalton takes boarders, and one of my friends' boyfriends is boarding. And apparently the other night there was a cop raid, they all woke up because of the screaming and the sirens, because -you'll never guess- some guys here are some kind of prostitutes._

You don't make a sound -you saw it coming- but your wife swallows thickly and sets her knife down, glancing quickly at you, clutching the cross around her neck. Your son is watching his sister with huge eyes, his mouth half-open as she continues,  _They, like, have sex with old men for money, and one of them got caught because he parked his car in the bank's lot, and that's like, forbidden or whatever. The guy tries to run away, but they chased him and he was like, trying to get back on the school grounds._

(you see it all again too clearly -the holes in the netting, the boys swiftly slipping into the night and disappearing)

  
 _The dude's from Indiana or whatever, and his parents still live here_ (you relax, closing your eyes a few seconds)  _but he's gonna get expelled, I think. That's just sick. And sad. Like, super sad. They're trying to cover it all up, so they won't talk about it on the news or whatever, but everyone at Crawford knows. We don't know names but still. Now everyone's talking and there are a few who are like, out and proud, but they're too nice to do that kind of stuff, like-_

You cut her here,  _This is not an appropriate subject for a family dinner,_ and she raises and eyebrow. Your son starts talking about his own school, the science project he needs to do, his higher scores in P.E. class, and the discussion shifts to football camp and summer and your daughter wants to go to Chicago with her best friend's family. You don't know exactly when your breathing becomes normal again. 

(later that night,you fulfill one of your marital duties and kiss your wife until she goes down on your, her eyes closed hard and her breathing uneven and choked, her blonde hair too bright against her pale skin and her yellow nightgown, and she shudders when you touch her shoulders, so you keep your hands away from her and grasp the crisp sheets instead. Her mouth is wet and warm and your grasp gets harder ; her lips are soft and full and you close your eyes, and as you remember, you try to forget.)


End file.
